Fading in the Black
by LadyDivine91
Summary: Kurt is stressed out beyond belief. His boss, Isabelle, comes up with a solution that she promises will solve his problem for good. One night with an anonymous stranger, no strings attached. After not enough consideration, Kurt takes her up on it. It's just sex, not love. What can it hurt? But he may end up regretting it. Kurtbastian. Kurt H. Sebastian S.


**Kurt is stressed out beyond belief. Pressure from life, pressure from work, and no sex-life to speak of, are taking its toll. His boss, Isabelle, comes up with a solution that she promises will solve his problem for good. Something she calls 'therapeutic'.**

 **One night with an anonymous stranger, no strings attached.**

 **After not enough consideration, Kurt takes her up on it. It's just sex, not love. What can it hurt?**

 **But he may end up regretting it.**

 _ **Notes: Taken from my post on Tumblr: "Okay, so there was a one-shot I was writing a year ago that I hadn't decided which fandom to make it for. It was originally a present for my friend freakingpotter, but I saw it also working well for Coldflash. On the other hand, I wanted to make it for Klaine as well. In the end, it became a Coldflash one-shot, but a year later (I think) I'm re-visiting it for the other two fandoms. So, hopefully they'll be up tonight/tomorrow, and I hope you enjoy them. And remember, you give me grief, and I'm writing for Voltron :D"**_

Kurt stands alone in the dark, bound at the wrists, his hands cuffed to two posts with his arms outstretched.

Waiting.

Waiting for his lover.

A lover he hasn't met yet.

And with a swallow that struggles to make its way down his throat to his stomach, he begins to wonder why he lets himself get talked into these situations. He's never felt more vulnerable than he does now, the reason kind of obvious, but ironically, he's never felt more self-conscious, more aware of his flaws – the soft pouch of his stomach that he could never get rid of, puberty and P90X be damned; how his left foot pronates and his knee turns in, a side-effect of too many dumpster tosses that stuck with him post-high school; his smile which, though it made his eyes sparkle, also made his teeth disappear for some inexplicable reason; and the wild thicket sprouting between his legs, like the hair of a neglected troll doll.

Okay, so maybe that's a bit of an overstatement. But a last minute work-related crisis caused him to miss his waxing appointment, and he couldn't squeeze in another before tonight.

He doesn't feel good about it.

Is sex really worth all of this?

The darkness around him isn't just all encompassing. It's oppressive, like a physical weight crowding in on him, pressing down on him, putting his senses on high alert. He doesn't move, doesn't breath too loudly, doesn't make a sound, trying to pinpoint the presence of someone else in the room. He turns his head from side to side, sweeping his gaze around – not that it helps. It's pitch black. Someone could be standing an inch in front of his face and Kurt would never see them.

That's the catch.

A night of body worship with an anonymous stranger.

That's what Kurt signed up for.

And for his partner to be truly anonymous, he can't talk to him, can't see him. Hence, the utter darkness.

Kurt did what he was told.

Now he has to wait for his partner to come in and get started.

It's been over an hour since he first got here to get to this point.

There's no turning back now.

This establishment, located in the heart of Upper Manhattan (rather arrogantly situated in Kurt's opinion) was recommended to him by his boss, Isabelle Wright. Her interest in his sex life, as of late, had been bordering on disturbing as it was. But when he snapped at an intern for suggesting they go with a Robin's Egg motif instead of sycophantically agreeing with his recommendation of Russian Blue, Isabelle jumped to the conclusion that he needed sex, and he needed it _yesterday_.

He could laugh it off all he wanted, chalk it up to Isabelle's bawdy sense of humor, but, unfortunately, she was right. He'd been on an involuntary sexual leave-of-absence for the better part of a year, and it was beginning to eat away at him. Except for a select group of people, he hated everybody, even before he met them. Every muscle in his body had become permanently tense. Every time he blinked, his head throbbed. (The head on his shoulders wasn't the only one throbbing.) His wet dreams had started to become nightmares of the anxiety inducing variety, so much so that, on some nights, he only got two to three hours of sleep. But when he did, he woke up with a boner so disastrous, if he wasn't careful, he'd piss in his own face.

He needed some serious relief.

His nightly ritual of seducing himself under the covers with his trusty right hand wasn't offering him any whatsoever, and he'd nearly turned over his entire wallet to Fort Troff, searching for a combination of dildos and other masturbatory aids to satisfy him. He balked at the idea of seeing a professional, but Isabelle assured him this place was nothing like that. The participants weren't sex workers. Every member was one of Manhattan's elite – CEO's, models, execs. There was an application process, background checks, a thorough medical history. And after you were approved, you got to spend a night of total body worship with an anonymous stranger in a room that was completely black, like those trendy upscale eateries on the Upper East Side where all the waiters are blind.

The place was so bougie, they even sent a limo to get him.

When Kurt arrived at the … God, he doesn't like calling it a _bordello_ … a pretty, polite, but otherwise unenthusiastic receptionist checked him in. She had him put his keys, cell phone, wallet, and other personal belongings into a box with a timed lock, then slid that box into a safe behind her desk. She went over the rules, which Isabelle had already outlined for him during their initial discussion; all forty-six of them - a conversation that rivaled the sex talk he'd had with his father in high school for the title of most uncomfortable of his life.

She double-checked a few items from his personal profile, then flashed him a wry smile. She knew him. Of course, she knew him. She was reading the most recent issue of _Vogue_ , the one with his picture in the center spread, modeling the latest trend on Paris runways – faux animal skin. Not just fake leather, but exotic pieces as well – Komodo dragon, zebra, and (his least favorite of the collection) hoof shoes.

If those photographs didn't peg him as some sort of subversive eccentric, his trip to this little hideaway cinched it.

He was instructed to undress, shower thoroughly, and douche. The receptionist, who didn't give Kurt her name, informed him that there was a closet in the bathroom for his clothes, and that he should make sure they're secured before he showers since he will not touch them again until after the evening is over. He's not permitted to speak to anyone he encounters – not the other employees, and especially not his partner.

She reached into her desk drawer and pulled out a rectangular box, printed with the picture of a man with come-hither eyes holding an obscenely large red bulb syringe. She used the box to gesture to a far door.

"The instructions are inside the box," she explained in an amused voice, holding the box out to him. "Use it, relieve yourself, put it back in the box, and dispose of it in the trash before you shower. During your shower, you will brush your teeth and shampoo your hair with the products provided. After your shower, you'll dry off thoroughly with the towel hanging over the rod. You can apply the lotion given, but no cologne. Then you will exit through the opposite door."

"Yes. Of course. (ahem) Thank you," he'd mumbled, then left the reception area before their interaction could get any more unbearable. He examined the box in his hands, wondering idly if the employees got to use the services here as a perk. Isabelle called it _therapeutic_. So maybe it was listed in their benefits package under alternative medicine, like massages, high colonics, and Pilates classes.

Kurt showered in a lit private bathroom, which resembled the upscale bathrooms at the Waldorf Astoria. When he'd done everything the receptionist said – hung up his clothes, douched, showered, and dried - he opened the secondary door opposite the first that led to the lobby. The minute he opened it, he was slapped by what looked like a huge gaping hole of nothingness stretching out in front of him. He stepped out, propelled by faith alone since he couldn't see the floor, into a hall so devoid of light, it felt like he was stepping into the unfathomable vastness of space. He closed the door behind him, and in an instant, the light from the bathroom was whisked away, not a ray of it seeping through.

He felt someone touch him. Hands wrapped around his wrists and wordlessly urged him forward. Kurt, with the distinct lack of a discernible world warping his senses, allowed himself to be led by what he deduced were two unseen handlers (who he could only imagine had been waiting outside the bathroom door the entire time since they reached out and grabbed him the second it shut) down a completely darkened hallway into an even darker room. The faceless entities helped him into a pair of leather cuffs, chained to posts at his side (bedposts?), at a distance which forced him to keep his arms outstretched. His ankles were bound in similar leather cuffs but with a bar in between, spreading his legs wide apart. He didn't feel anything of his two assistants except their hands. He couldn't guess their height, their age, or their gender. Not a strand of hair brushed his skin, and they only touched his wrists and ankles. They must have been wearing kidskin leather gloves, because their skin felt unnaturally supple.

Surely, those two people had to be able to see somehow, unless they're blind, like the waiters in the restaurant.

Or sworn to an oath of secrecy.

Bound and unable to move away from the posts or undo the cuffs by himself, the two handlers left, the sound of their footsteps irregularly loud on the featureless floor. He heard the door open and shut, and a lock thrown. Then nothing. Quiet. His own breathing and the blood rushing through his ears.

Kurt swallowed the last of the moisture in his mouth. Suddenly, this didn't seem like the best idea.

He felt like maybe he should have asked Isabelle a lot more questions before he agreed to come here.

And he's been waiting ever since.

Kurt reconsiders his choices from the ongoing list he's been compiling for ways to help him through his "funk".

Extreme yoga.

Kickboxing.

Bungee jumping.

The shooting range.

A staged kidnapping.

All of which might appeal to the thrill seeker in him (if there was one), but they wouldn't give him what he ultimately needed.

Being locked in this room without light becomes extremely disorienting very quickly. Without a view of the outside, he has no concept of time. Kurt jiggles his wrists to hear the clanging of the metal chain that attaches the cuffs to the posts. He tugs on them, testing their strength. They seem sturdy, meant to be yanked without the links popping from the chain. He's trapped – thoroughly unable to escape. And even if he could, where would he go? He knows the door is somewhere behind him, but after that?

Kurt has to constantly remind himself that this is what he signed up for – willingly. He can think of a dozen reasons why he should call out for help and put a stop to this, and only one reason to stay. But that one reason is powerful enough to keep him calm and centered.

He trusts Isabelle. Isabelle wouldn't put him in danger, and she wouldn't set him up.

But as time ticks by, Kurt becomes afraid that he's been forgotten. No one's monitoring these rooms as far as he knows. How the hell do they even run this place? Did they need a permit to open it? He assumes the city doesn't hand out permits for places like this. What does their business license say they do here?

Blinking against darkness that his eyes refuse to adjust to, Kurt wonders what this room looks like in the day time. The walls have to be painted black. What kind of paint do they use to absorb every speck of light like this? With the kind of money this place funnels in (Kurt fronted $15,000 just to get his application into the queue), they can probably get their hands on Vantablack, even if that asshole Anish Kapoor owns the rights to it. Who cleans in here? They put the lights on then, right? As an avid viewer of _Cold Case_ and _CSI_ : _New York_ , Kurt wonders how _thoroughly_ they clean. And with _what_. How much DNA must be plastered on the walls, these cuffs, the floor beneath his bare feet …?

It makes him wish he'd been allowed to leave his socks on, or wear a pair of flip-flops.

Athlete's foot is a souvenir from tonight he'd rather not contend with.

But if he's going to contract foot-fungus or a flesh-eating bacteria, he hopes, at the very least, that it came from a big name star like Halle Berry or Robert Downey, Jr. He's tempted to come back on another night and smuggle in the UV penlight he uses to find cat urine on his carpet, see if this place lights up like a Christmas tree.

A swarm of progressively ludicrous thoughts and questions skip through his brain to help him pass the time when he hears the door behind him open, and someone walk in. Kurt shoots his head to the side to see if he can catch any glimpse of light, but there's nothing. Total darkness. The same as when he came in.

Kurt's heart speeds to an inhuman pace, pounding in his ears, obscuring the sound of footsteps so that he doesn't know how close they've gotten to him. The person entering the room seems to be alone, and they appear to know where they're going, undeterred by the absolute dark. They don't fumble around, don't trip or stutter their steps. They stride up to Kurt, reaching out strong hands and putting them on his shoulders, as if they could see his silhouette in front of them. Kurt realizes, with a sinking feeling, that this person knows where they're going because they've been here before.

Probably many, _many_ times before.

Kurt had fancied that the person he'd be paired up with might be like himself – new to this, and just as nervous as he is. But this might turn out better, having someone with knowledge guiding him through. Either way, at this point, he gets no other choices.

Since small talk isn't allowed, and they both know why they're there, his anonymous partner wastes no time. He runs the flats of his palms down Kurt's body, starting at his shoulders, down the lines of his back, over his ass, and along the outsides of his thighs, traveling to his ankles, damp hair tickling Kurt's skin as he does. Kurt's head drops forward on his shoulders. It's been a long time since someone has touched him like this … such a long time.

And oh God! This man just came from the shower. Thinking about his partner preparing for him the same way Kurt did proves to be a tremendous turn on. Kurt feels a moan rise up his throat. He bites his tongue to keep it from leaving his mouth.

Silence. Darkness and silence. Total anonymity. Those are the rules.

This man's hands are fluid in their movements, like liquid on Kurt's skin – a sensual libation. He feels calmed by these touches, and a bit tipsy - warm and dizzy, abuzz from the blood evacuating his brain.

The man is meticulous – pausing at certain areas, retracing them with his fingertips. He spends a good ten minutes investigating Kurt's hands alone – his wrist, his palm, the pads of his fingers, stopping to suck on each and every one. He's trying to get a picture of Kurt, Kurt realizes - a luxury that Kurt doesn't have, cuffed the way he is. The hands make the trip back up Kurt's body, and when the man stands fully, he wraps his arms around Kurt from the back, dragging his palms up Kurt's front. Not aggressively, but unashamedly, he gropes between Kurt's legs. His hands find Kurt's cock and stops. He wraps the fingers of one hand around it, holds it, traces over veins and ridges, spending more time here than anywhere else. The man fits his own lengthy erection between Kurt's ass cheeks and presses their bodies together – leg to leg, pelvis to rear, chest to back – so when Kurt's head drops backward, it's resting on the man's shoulder.

The man puts a hand to Kurt's neck. Kurt tenses, almost vocally objects, but the man doesn't squeeze. He holds him possessively, placing a kiss on Kurt's forehead and shaking his head in a way that communicates the fact that he's not trying to hurt Kurt, just that he wants Kurt to keep his head there.

Kurt nods, because he has no plans on moving.

That kiss – tender, feathery – has Kurt's body thrumming, quivering like a telephone wire, pulsing with electricity.

The man's hand leaves Kurt's cock and slides up his chest, exploring Kurt's muscles – where his abs end, the cut of his pecs, the definition in his shoulders and arms. They venture across to his nipples – one dry finger at a time swirling around the pebbled flesh, causing Kurt's breathing, already shallow, to hitch. The man brings his hand to Kurt's mouth, pressing against his lips, and Kurt's lower jaw drops open. The finger that dips inside, Kurt bathes with his tongue, closing his lips around it and sucking, his cock throbbing when the man behind him holds his breath.

Those fingers, remarkably slender considering their strength, return to Kurt's chest, slipping over his right nipple, circling torturously slow, and Kurt, unable to utter a single syllable, rolls his head back and forth with the agony of it.

The hand around Kurt's throat leaves and touches Kurt's face, padding along his cheekbones, his eyebrows, his lips, his ears, threading through Kurt's hair. Kurt can feel the man's mouth right beside his temple, but the man doesn't kiss him again.

Inside Kurt's brain, he's begging him to.

When he's done, the man pulls away, stealing his support and his body heat, leaving Kurt weak and aching. The man takes a single finger and scratches lightly over Kurt's shoulder, forming a deliberate pattern of dips and swirls. As Kurt focuses on it, he realizes it's a word.

 _Hot_.

Kurt ducks his head and smiles. Without warning, the man's there, capturing that smile with his lips and kissing him. Hands cup Kurt's face and the man steps in close, his cock sliding up against Kurt's, the two sandwiched between them. He ruts against Kurt in a lazy rhythm, just a tease while he kisses him over and over, keeping Kurt on the verge of taking a breath and then stealing it from him, until Kurt feels hot from crown to sole, and he can't think straight.

He feels the man smile, feels him run the tip of his nose against his skin, his chin, his cheek, his biceps pressed against his side as he embraces him, his hands resting on his back, and Kurt tries his best to piece together an image of what this man might look like. But, eventually, he lets go of his need to know, along with his need to be, and opens himself up to the experience. Soon, there is no Kurt. There is no heartbreak, no tragic backstory. He is, instead, a combination of every sensation this man can evoke within him. His concept of up and down becomes skewed, dream and reality blend. There are no physical barriers between them - no cuffs, no chains. Only this man's body against his. This could be oblivion and Kurt wouldn't care. Let it all end here. Tomorrow? There's no reason to think that far ahead.

The man kisses Kurt's chin, down his neck, and Kurt lets his head loll while this man has his way – licking, caressing, leaving no inch of skin ignored. Several times, he sheathes Kurt's cock in the confines of his mouth before traveling to other sensitive areas – his inner thigh, behind his knee, the knob of his ankle - always returning to Kurt's erection to torment it, vacating it shortly after to simmer in a maddening barely there state, where too much attention would push Kurt beyond the breakers, pull him under, too far for him to return.

Kurt wishes he could return the favor, make this man wobble at the knees, make him burn with want for him.

On the application he'd filled out to be considered for membership, he had to choose whether or not he wanted to be the one who was worshipped, or the one who did the worshipping. Kurt had lingered on that question the longest, pondering why it had to be one or the other, but the answer was always clear in his mind. He deserved to be worshipped. Kurt would never admit it out loud because how shallow would that sound? Yes, he's burned out, but it's not like he's been building houses for Habitat for Humanities or volunteering down at the soup kitchen. At most, he feels a bit underappreciated, but that barely qualifies him as deserving of body worship. So if he's going to admit the truth to anyone, he'll admit it to himself.

He's selfish.

He's tired of giving. He's watched other people get opportunities he worked his ass off for time and time again, watched other performers win roles he deserved to play.

He watched the man he loved cheat on him, then fall in love with the boy who threatened to kill him in high school.

Kurt never fully recovered from that, never found someone he could trust again.

He _deserves_ this.

Kurt had been afraid that, chained up like this, especially with the spreader bar between his ankles, ensuring his legs couldn't close, he would feel like a toy - a plaything to be used, here for the enjoyment of some random guy. But he sees now he was mistaken.

Sorely mistaken.

Kurt hears the man shift on his knees, crawling behind him. Then a tongue, sinewy and wet, weeds its way past the crack of Kurt's ass in search of his entrance. His knees sway. He keels backwards. The man grabs his hips to hold him upright and pushes in again, feeling free to part Kurt's cheeks when Kurt locks his knees, stabilizing himself.

Kurt drowns in this sensation, this gentle lapping at nerve-riddled flesh that makes his knees knock and his teeth grind to keep him from keening. The man's tongue takes long, leisurely licks over Kurt's hole, then dips inside, opening Kurt up, relaxing that outer ring of muscle, and it hits Kurt at once what for. This tongue, massaging him in sinful ways, is equal parts exciting and relaxing, but thinking about his partner's cock - rock hard and thick, from what Kurt could feel - replacing it …

Kurt's stomach clenches with a vengeance.

It's been a long time. A _very_ long time.

No dildo from an online sex shop could have prepared him for this.

There's a break when the man's mouth leaves Kurt's skin, and Kurt hears the hurried tearing of a condom wrapper. The man returns, parts Kurt's cheeks, and lines himself up with his entrance. Kurt shivers, the chains clattering loudly, and the man stops. He scratches another word across Kurt's shoulder.

 _Scared_?

He puts a hand to the back of Kurt's head and cradles it, waiting for an answer.

Kurt shakes his head. Kurt's not scared. Nervous, but not scared. The man smiles, his lips pressed against Kurt's shoulder so he can feel it.

 _Good_ , he writes. _Relax_.

Kurt nods. He takes a few deep breaths. He wills his body to open up and allow this man entry. Kurt wants it. He wants it _now_ , and with this person. Nothing could be more perfect than this moment.

The man behind him is in no hurry. He has a bottle of lube, which he was more than likely given along with the condom by the handlers that led them inside. Kurt hears it pop open, the undignified squelch as the man squeezes out the fluid into the palm of his hand, and then a subtle click as he sets it aside.

These noises, insignificant in the world outside this room, are stepping stones for Kurt. They show a progression, a countdown towards a pivotal moment.

There's pressure, a slick bluntness, and then a slight burning as those muscles stretch to accommodate. The man pulls back, then pushes forward; back, and then forward; and Kurt struggles to stay completely silent. He holds on to every moan as if his life depends on it. The sound he does make is a sustained growl, which he does with the air issuing out through his mouth, not vibrating his vocal cords, making it toneless.

The man pushes in until he's completely engulfed by Kurt's body and holds him, arms clutching his chest from behind, resting his forehead against the base of his neck. Heavy puffs of breath ghost over Kurt's back as the man restrains himself from moving any further. Deep breath in, deep breath out - Kurt counts them as they heat his skin, using them as a way to track the seconds going by.

A finger touches Kurt's shoulder, this time trembling.

 _Okay_? he writes.

Kurt nods, hands balled into fists, wrists pulling against his cuffs, the leather biting in. The man behind him feels so incredible inside his body that if he has to wait a second longer, he's going to go insane. The man starts moving again, lips on Kurt's neck and hands kneading his tired arms, the slide in and out of his body effortless.

This man - his body - is different.

And it feels _fantastic_.

The man fills him up, then lets him go, setting him afloat on a rising current of ecstasy. Kurt tugs the cuffs with every plunge, shaking the chains until they sound like they'll shatter.

Kurt never realized how important moaning is to the whole act of sex. Since he can't, he feels like there's something clawing inside that's caged, fighting to take over, withering with each denied cry, each stifled gasp. That should frustrate the hell out of him, but it doesn't.

It's an exercise in control.

The man drives him ruthlessly, hands that once roamed relenting to arms clinging around his chest. His mouth sucks at Kurt's shoulders, occasionally gnawing, but not hard. A hand sneaks down to find his cock and grabs hold, stroking slowly, in insane opposition to his frantic pace. Kurt pushes back and thrusts forward, wanting more, _needing_ more.

And then it happens. It's not supposed to happen. Kurt was fighting so damned hard to make sure it wouldn't happen. But it happened anyway.

And it wasn't Kurt's fault.

"God!" the man grumbles, gravelly and raw, fueled by the snap of his body as his hips begin to race. Kurt bites his lower lip, bites it so hard it might have started bleeding. The sting of it is inconsequential, means less than nothing. He broke the rules. The man broke the rules. They're not supposed to speak, not that anyone is watching or listening. (Kurt keeps saying that to himself, but he doesn't know for sure. There could be night vision cameras mounted in every corner of this place, and Kurt wouldn't know.) Isabelle told Kurt that the rules are more for emotional security than anything else. This is a no strings attached arrangement. One night – nothing else. Having something to latch on to – a voice, a scent – are ways of identifying a partner in the real world.

A hopeless romantic who equates sex with love might find themselves heartbroken, searching the world a thousand times over for something that doesn't exist.

Kurt is not that person; not anymore, anyway. Not with how badly he's been stung. Still, he can't discount the way his body feels – the way this man makes his body feel – so he tucks the memory of that voice away and hides it in his mind.

It'll be his secret, something he can dig out and use as stroke material during the long continuation of his celibacy.

Kurt cums over the man's fist, long ropes coating his abs, shooting to his chin. His partner slams into him erratically, fingers holding Kurt's convulsing body steady by his hips, nails sinking into the flesh over the bone, then he goes completely still. With choked-off grunts, the man shudders behind Kurt, their bodies locked together as both men continue to reel. He pulls out cautiously, removing the condom, tying it off and tossing it somewhere – apparently he knows where.

The sound of heavy breathing fills the room. It's nearly impossible for Kurt to catch his breath - his abs still quivering, the balls of his feet smarting from supporting his weight. His partner's breathing slows first, fluctuates in volume as the man paces the room. Seconds later, the only breathing in the room belongs to Kurt.

But Kurt didn't hear the door open, so he assumes the man is still there.

There comes a moment of bereavement, and shame when Kurt thinks his partner is just going to leave, but then there's a mouth on his chest, a tongue licking down to his stomach, and _oh dear God!_ Kurt thinks. _He's cleaning me off with his mouth!_

The man works his way up Kurt's body, and when he stands, he holds Kurt in his arms, which he seems fond of doing. Holding Kurt tight, holding him close, burying his face in the crook of Kurt's neck and hugging him like he doesn't want to let go. The man's mouth covers his, lips parting Kurt's, tongue sweeping through, rubbing lightly over his hard palate, the taste of his own cum sending tingles throughout his body. Kurt's arms tense, reflex causing them to try and hug him back, but he can't. Kurt can't hold him, can't knead his muscles or card his fingers through his hair, and that becomes the only downside of the night.

The man steps away, but his body is reluctant to go. He detaches from Kurt in a wave, with his forehead resting against Kurt's the last to depart. He circles around, fingers grazing Kurt's arm from his shoulder to his hand, linking temporarily with his, weaving together in a brief handhold. Kurt feels a single fingertip scratch over his shoulder – his final words before the man is gone for good.

 _Thanks, love_.

The man seals it with a kiss over the same spot, lips sucking what might turn out to be a purple mark.

Kurt hopes it will.

Footsteps fade toward the door. The man knocks twice. Kurt can't see the door open, but it wouldn't matter. Like before, no light enters the room. The man walks out, the door shuts, and Kurt is left to wait for someone to come in and un-cuff him.

Kurt sighs. It's a content sigh, a satisfied sigh.

But it's sad as well.

This isn't what he expected. What he shared with that man wasn't anonymous sex. It was something more. It was communication, caring, acceptance, mutual attraction.

It isn't what he expected, but it's what he wanted.

And now, it's over.

He can't sulk over that. He got the tension out of his system, freed up his chakras so he can attack his spin class in the morning and prevail. He can go back to business as usual, go back to being Kurt Hummel, associate fashion editor at _Vogue_.

He can take this experience and put it behind him. It'll stave off the cravings, tamp down the urges, until he finds someone in the real world worthy of dating him. Till then, he can get his life back on track, get some quality sleep, and be nicer to the interns.

From now on, everything will be fine.

* * *

Kurt is ruined, so filled with need for this man he's never seen that he's wound even tighter than before. He's so desperate for him, he even tried going back to the bordello twice, shelled out 30 grand for two more anonymous fucks. The first guy Kurt got was too eager, too impetuous; the second too timid and apprehensive.

Both experiences were decent, worth the money he spent, but they weren't the same.

He shouldn't have spoken. That man not only rocked Kurt's world, he split it in two. _God!_ Kurt wishes he could push the memory away, but he can't. It creeps out of hiding and echoes in his dreams, in his waking thoughts, when he least expects it. And now he knows why talking was forbidden.

Kurt is obsessed with it.

He needs to find its owner.

Kurt knows it's ridiculous. How in hell is he supposed to find someone based on one word alone? It's not like anyone else can hear it. No one can help him with this. He could try suing the bordello, but somehow he feels that would end up making matters worse. They could purge their membership and relocate, send word through the grapevine that it was because of him, and he would be shunned from the New York elite for good. He'd probably lose his job once Isabelle found out. In the least, he'd probably be banned from ever returning, and then there'd be no hope of him finding his mystery man again.

But what can he do? Playing Russian Roulette at the bordello will tap his bank account quicker than quick, but he has few other recourses. Is he supposed to go up to every man in New York City and ask them to utter the word _God_ as if they were saying it during sex?

What an awkward conversation that would be.

This is New York, though. If he lies and says it's for a _Vogue_ feature, men might do it.

Worse comes to worst, the arresting officers may believe him and let him off with a warning.

Kurt decides not to risk it. Instead, he turns himself into the most ridiculous social butterfly there ever was. He goes out every night and talks up every unattached man he sees. He knows he's making a spectacle of himself (and being a high profile editor at _Vogue_ , paparazzi will have a field day) but he has no other choice. He's even resorted to eavesdropping, sitting at a table in the dead center of a bar or restaurant and letting his attention jump from conversation to conversation, hoping that his mystery man might be somewhere in the crowd, having a drink, laughing with friends … thinking of him.

Isabelle no longer comments on his sex life, but this change in him has begun to concern her, and Kurt knows it, especially since he won't talk to her about it – her, or all people. His chief confidante. He knows he should give up his search for his mystery lover full stop, but he can't. This must be what drug addiction feels like, he thinks, sitting at the bar at Analogue, squatting a green-topped barstool in the midst of the action. He rarely comes here, seeing as it's in the Village. The last time he did, he must have been in college. But something in his gut told him that this was the place to be tonight.

Either to find the man he's looking for, drink him away, or hook up with another lover, remains to be seen.

"Shall I get you another gimlet?" the bartender asks, smiling at him as if she knows too much.

"Yes, please," he says, though he knows he probably won't drink this one. But he hates occupying the seat of a paying, tipping customer without footing his fair share. Along with this drink, he intends to order a cheese platter, as well as leave this kind, attentive young lady a twenty when he goes, which will probably be soon. He has to end this. It was a fool's errand from the start, as it should be. Anonymity is what he paid for. It was to protect him as well as this man.

He should be grateful it works so well.

Besides, how in the hell did he expect, in a city of eight million people, to stumble across a man he heard speak once in the dark?

"Courvoisier on the rocks," the bartender calls to the crowd gathered three deep at the bar. Kurt considers himself lucky he got here early enough to secure this barstool. And he's not giving it up yet, regardless of how many people shoot death glares his way.

"A Courvoisier on the rocks for … uh … Sebastian Smith?"

"That's _Smythe_! Sebastian _Smythe_! I only come in here every dammed weekend! You'd think you'd get it right by now! _God_! Are there enough people standing here? Out of my way, princess," a voice gripes, an arm pushing past Kurt to retrieve his drink. And Kurt would move to let him through, only …

 _God_.

Kurt freezes when he hears it. He's heard about twelve dozen men say _God_ in passing over the past few weeks, so much so that he thought his memory of the man's voice would have dimmed. But no. _He_ may not remember it perfectly, but his body knows. And his body reacts.

His hair stands on end.

His skin prickles.

His heart stops dead.

And his cock throbs.

Kurt watches the man as he shoves his way through, and though he's paralyzed, he forces his head to turn. He has to get a good look at him. He has to know who he is. He has to add a face to the voice. If he doesn't look, he'll regret it for the rest of his life.

Just as Kurt turns to face him, the man looks his way, and, for a moment, time stops. The noises around them dim. And the only two people in the world are the two of them. The man's hair, swooped up in the front, is longer than Kurt had imagined it, but his lips are just as full. Kurt can feel those lips now exploring his body, latched onto his shoulder, sucking the bruise that took a week to fade.

Wrapped around his cock and teasing his hole.

Kurt's eyes widen when they lock with his, green as ocean glass, and they stare unblinkingly at one another. Kurt thinks he sees a hint of recognition when their hands brush together. How that can be, Kurt has absolutely no idea, but he had spent a lot of time feeling them, touching them … kissing them. But even if that's the case, the man smirks and says, "Why don't you take a picture, princess? It'll last longer."

Time begins again, and Kurt's world slams into focus. So much for finding his mystery man. Whatever romantic notions Kurt had about the two of them being reunited have officially been demolished. This isn't Kurt's paradise in the dark. This is the real world. And out here, where people aren't paired by the whims of overpaid matchmakers, where they meet in bars and hope for the best, this man isn't his mystery lover.

Actually, he's kind of an ass.

"That's original. Did you think that one up yourself?" Kurt wants to fire back, but he can't. That snide remark that this man Sebastian just made, and calling him _princess_ to boot, should have killed Kurt's desire for him cold, should have shelved it entirely and buried it at sea.

But it doesn't.

And that's when Kurt knows he's completely fucked.


End file.
